


trapped in this underworld we dance

by wariangle



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Minor Original Character(s), Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3313931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mira finds her eyes hopelessly drawn to the gleaming muscle in Saxa's stomach, the curve of her breasts, the proud jut of her chin, just as she had the first time she laid eyes on her, back when she was still a lowly recruit, dirty and snarling with anger.</p><p>-</p><p>Saxa is a gladiatrix at the ludus and Mira has wanted her since first glance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for additional warnings, see end notes.
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!

On Vulcanalia, Batiatus throws a lavish celebration at the close of the games for the pleasure of Capua's most elite citizens. The gladiators, his prized possessions by whose skill he has rises through the ranks of Roman politics, are standing cleaned, oiled and decorated with splendor for the guests to entertain themselves with. Many of them carry wounds and bruises from the day's games and Spartacus, the costumary winner of the primus, keeps his head high, despite the exhaustion evident on his face. As Mira passes him, she reaches out a hand to quickly squeeze his, taking care that no one sees.

She has grown to accept that he will never be hers, that what she seeks is not something he is capable of giving, but she can still offer him a friend's comfort. He returns the fleeting touch with a gentle squeeze of his own fingers.

Turning away, her gaze is caught, as often happens lately, by Saxa, who standing among her German brethren. They are clad in fur and leather to bring mind to their supposed savagery and woodland origins. Batiatus proclaim them mighty beasts as they step upon the sand, half human and half animal, and Saxa is his prized she-wolf. She has yet to lose a fight and is, due to the novelty of her sex as much as her apparent skill, in high demand. Mira finds her eyes hopelessly drawn to the gleaming muscle in her stomach, the curve of her breasts, the proud jut of her chin, just as she had the first time she had laid eyes on her, back when she was still a lowly recruit, dirty and snarling with anger.

A Roman woman, wife or relation to some great man judging by the way Lucretia hovers at her side, is running her fingers across Saxa's tanned arm, the heavy jewels on her fingers catching the light like small bursts of lightning. She leans over to murmur something to Lucretia, who laughs.

“Mira,” Naevia says, breaking Mira's train of thought. “We are in need of more wine.”

Mira nods and hurries down into the cellar to grab another amphora, glad to be rid of the spectacle above, even for the briefest of moments. Every newly-arrived slave at the house of Batiatus quickly learns to dread these gatherings and the duties that eventually will be required of them.

She emerges from the cellar with the jug tightly in her grip for fear of spilling wine all across the floor and with the movement she catches Domina's attention.

“Mira,” she says, “put that down and come here.”

Cold fear gripping her belly even as she feels the resignation settling heavy in her bones, Mira hands the jug over to another girl and follows Domina. She knows where this will lead and all she can do is pray it is not Rhaskos or Gnaus hiding behind the drapes in the room where Domina takes her.

There are guests already gathered in the room, waiting on her for the performance to begin - and among them is the Roman woman Mira saw touching Saxa. She hates how she suddenly finds the queasiness turning her stomach mixed with a twisted kind of hope - and of want.

In the center of the room is a bed that Saxa, having shed her ceremonial armor, is standing next to, her lip curled with fury or disgust. Despite the circumstances, Mira feels herself flushing at the sight of her - the rosy buds of her nipples peaking through the tangle of blonde hair and those long, strong legs on unbroken display. There is a phallus strapped to Saxa's hips and Mira can feel how heat run down her spine and wetness form between her thighs at the thought of Saxa inside of her, fucking her, even as her stomach rolls from the knowledge that it will happen here, for the purpose of entertaining these Roman shits.

"Undress," Lucretia says.

Mira moves to obey, quickly easing out of the thin shift she's wearing and letting it fall to the floor. She can feel heavy eyes on her skin, but keeps her head low as she moves to the bed. Without being prompted, she positions herself on hands and knees and feels the bedding dip as Saxa steps up behind her.

"She fights like a man," Mira hears a man among the spectators say. "Let us see if she fucks as one as well."

Laughter follows his statement and then comes Domina's cool voice. "Proceed," she says.

Mira lets her eyes fall shut as she feels Saxa's hand placed on her hip. The gladiatrix's breasts brush against her bare back as she leans forward and to her surprise Mira receives a whispered "Apologies" in her ear before the warmth of Saxa's body is withdrawn.

She hears how Saxa spits in her palm and how the Roman's murmur in response. Taking a deep breath, she braces herself on her hands, forming fists in the bedding, as Saxa replaces her hand on Mira's hip, moving into position.

There is evident concern in the way Saxa enters her. She is sure but careful, and her spit and Mira's wetness is enough to ease the way, if not to make it completely painless. Mira's teeth are clenched around her bottom lip, lest any sounds escape.

The lengths of Saxa's hair tickle at the small of her back as she pulls back and thrusts forward with a powerful snap of her hips. Both of her hands have moved to Mira's hips now, fingers digging in slightly, to angle and brace against her. Sweat is treading down Mira's spine and her breath is leaving her in short, harsh pants to the rhythm to Saxa's hard, quick thrusts and echoed by Saxa's own rough breathing.

Slipping out almost completely and shifting her hips slightly, Saxa pushes back in at a different angle and hot tears of shame prick at Mira's eyes as it punches an involuntary sound out of her. The push and drag of Saxa inside of her is easy now, with Mira's mounting arousal slicking the way, and she hates how the waves of pleasure washes over her, again and again, hates this vicious betrayal of her own flesh.

Saxa is pounding into her now, proving herself the monstrous half-woman the Romans has painted her to be. Mira can hear their low laughter and whispers, can almost taste their scandalized rapture in the air, already heavy with the scent of their coupling. Like wildfire the whispers will spread from this room, telling of the scandalous wonders of the House of Batiatus where beastly women fuck like men.

Overwhelmed by another hot wave of pleasure she dips her head down, letting out a deep moan. A violent spasm carry through her body as Saxa's hand suddenly finds itself between her legs, fingers working her clit and sending fire sparking through Mira. Her movements are sure and practiced and together with the sharp thrusts of Saxa's hips, the fragile tether Mira still has on her body snaps.

When she reaches climax, her arms fold beneath her and she falls to the bed, breathing heavily and still moaning as the aftershocks ripples through her. The Romans must have had their fill as well because soon the movement of Saxa's hips slow, until she gently slips out of Mira, leaving her empty and raw.

With her eyes still closed, she doesn't see the crowd leave the room but she hears their steps as they passes her, their pleased-sounding voices as they discuss the show put on before them. She turns her face the other way and attempts to tune them out.

When only Lucretia remains, she rises on unsteady legs and moves to put her shift back on, but Lucretia proceeds her.

“You are to remain,” she tells Mira, “and see our gladiatrix properly rewarded.” Giving Saxa an unreadable look, she continues, “I'd send her a boy, but it seems she'd prefer a woman's touch.” With that, she leaves the room to return to the celebration.

Mira dares a quick look at Saxa, who is sprawled on the bed, her eyes fastened on Mira. “You enjoy?” she asks. Mira cannot read her tone, but she she quickly bows her head, overtaken by shame again.

She starts at the gentle touch on her arm.

“I try make good,” Saxa says. She is standing close, but not uncomfortably so. Mira wishes she could lean against her, just for a moment, and surrender herself into Saxa's hands, let her take care of her. But no such security exists within these cursed walls, that Mira knows all too well.

“Leave, if want,” Saxa continues softly. “No reward from unwilling woman.”

Mira can feel her blood growing hot anew at the thought of her and Saxa alone in this room for any length of time, but she does not want that in this moment, not this way. “Gratitude,” she says and bends down to pick up her shift, putting it on with swift hands.

As she moves to leave, Saxa's hand on hers stops her. “Name?” Saxa asks imploringly.

Mira looks up at her and finds only curiosity in her eyes. “Mira,” she says.

“Mira,” Saxa repeats. Her tongue shapes the name differently, her Germanic origins giving it a strange-sounding cadence. Mira likes it.

Not allowing herself to think too closely on it, she reaches up, cupping Saxa's cheek, and presses a kiss to her mouth. The warmth and strength of Saxa's body is evident even through the thin fabric of Mira's shift as she surges forward, responding eagerly to the embrace, and pulls a soft sound out of Mira as she bites into her bottom lip.

It is a thing she could grow dangerously accustomed to, Mira thinks.

She breaks the kiss and, emboldened by the heat in her veins and the evident desire in Saxa's eyes and touch, she leans in to whisper in her ear, “With your next win, when offered a reward, ask for me. I would come willingly, I promise you.”

Saxa nods and, gripping Mira's chin, gives her another rough kiss before stepping back to retrieve her armor.

When Mira reaches the doorway, lips still tingling from phantom touch of Saxa's kiss, she looks back at the gladiatrix and their eyes catch and hold for a long moment, passing risky, untold promises of future affection and care between them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Tear eyes from sight or see yourself confined to the villa when Domina catches lapse in attention to duties," Naevia whispers to her and Mira blushes and turns away from the training yard, feeling the fool for revealing desire so clearly and letting it turn her hands idle.

"She truly is a sight," Naevia adds kindly as they clean last night's celebration off the balcony. Mira's palms are already rubbed raw from untangling flower garlands all morning.

"She is," Mira agrees quietly, helpless not to, and Naevia smiles with an amused shake of her head, before growing serious.

"Last night," she says quietly, stepping closer, "I saw Domina lead you away from celebration. Are you well?"

Mira gives a hasty nod, feeling how blood rush to her cheeks with memory of last night - whether from shame or lust, she does not quite know.

Naevia moves her hand from the flower garland to rest it on Mira's arm for briefest moment before returning to task. "Who was it?" she asks carefully.

She asks to make sure that Mira is, indeed, well. There are some that are more gentle than others.

She raises her gaze to Saxa down in the yard, just as the gladiatrix throws herself at some poor recruit with a vicious snarl, and gives a small nod of her head.

"Oh," is all Naevia offers in reply.

  
  


Mira's duties seldom take her close to the gladiators, but they are the bread and blood of this household and word of their progress and status carries from the ludus into the villa like dust from the training yard below. Whenever any of theirs are slated to take to the sand, the whole house finds itself aflutter with activity.

Apart the clothes on her body and the collar around her neck, Mira's worldly belongings are few and meagre and thus she has no means to partake in the betting on the outcome of the fights. Had she any, she would bet all her coins on Saxa, despite her ever-low odds. It would not have been for the chance of profit, but to kindle hope in her heart. The arena is a treacherous place, unsafe for even the most skilled fighter.

When Lucretia assigns her laundry duty in the sweltering heat, Mira doesn't even curse her fate, all to eager to chase away pressing thoughts with mind-numbing task as she is.

  
  


The stone beneath the hand Mira holds out to steady her steps goes from blood-hot to cold as she descends the stairs behind the guard, leaving the scarlet rays of the setting sun behind for the cavernous darkness of the ludus. With her heart thumping heavily in her chest, she lets the guard lead her past the rows of cell, ignoring the jostle of the gladiators as they react to her presence with lecherous whistles and calls.

Her breathing doesn't resume properly until the guard stops in front of Saxa's cell, where the gladiatrix is leaning against the lattice-work, and unlocks it, holding it open for Mira to step inside.

"You have three hours," he says to Saxa, holding up three fingers for her to understand, and slams the door closed behind Mira.

He leaves, and Saxa sidles up close to Mira, pressing her body up against the bars. Her tanned skin is soft from bath and oil and apart from a small scrape across her brow, she bears no evidence of her fight.

"To ask for you when win, you said," she whispers into Mira's ear with her warm breath brushing across Mira's throat, raising goose-flesh.

"I did," she says, swallowing heavily.

Saxa presses a kiss beneath her ear, feather-light. Mira lifts her hands from where they've been hanging loosely at her sides and places them on Saxa's waist, lets her fingers fan out across the expanse of her skin.

With a low, rough noise, Saxa surges forward, trapping Mira between her arms, hands clenched around the bars, and presses her mouth to hers, pushing their bodies tightly together. Mira delights in finding that Saxa kisses the way she fights, all fervour and little finesse. Her kisses are rough enough to leave Mira's lips swollen and marked by nipping teeth, and she chases her mouth, eager for the ardent promise Saxa's touch seems to hold. It has been long since she has known anything but her own caresses or unwanted hands on her flesh.

Saxa's are anything but, and Mira relaxes into her grip as Saxa's hands steal inside her shift to cup her breast, a calloused thumb circling her nipple. Grabbing hold of a handful of Saxa's hair, Mira angles her mouth to deepen the kiss further, and Saxa makes a pleased sound deep in her throat as Mira gives a mindless tug at the golden strands. She shifts a strong thigh between Mira's legs, presses it against her cunt, and Mira groans at the sweet-rough drag of warm skin against most sensitive places.

Stealing gasping breaths between ravenous kisses, she moves on Saxa's thigh as much as she is able with the gladiatrix's body weight pinning her to the bars, with her hands moving to map Mira's skin, returning again and again to her breasts for toying caresses.

Mira suddenly tastes copper between them, belatedly realizing she has bit hard into the other woman's lip. Saxa pulls away for briefest moment, grins with red like a slash across her mouth, and leans back in, smearing the blood between them, as if an offering to whatever god may bless this union of flesh.

Mira has held much thought to where this will lead once she'd be in Saxa's arms, but none of those vivid scenarios had included Saxa pressing a final kiss to her lips before dropping to her knees, hands going to Mira's thighs to push the cloth of the shift away and lay her bare as if there is nothing strange about her actions.

Mira's hand grabs hold of Saxa's neck to hold her still, even as want spears red-hot from the pit of her belly up her spine, causing her legs and her will to tremble with threat of crumbling. "They'll see," she hisses.

Saxa's cell is furthest to the wall with the opposite one empty, lending them some welcome privacy, but not much - from the corner of her eye, Mira can see gladiators leaning against the bars of the nearest cells, curious to see what they are doing. She doesn't care enough to mind - it's better than an audience of Romans, at least - but the mighty gladiatrix cannot be seen on her knees in front of a common house slave.

Saxa snorts and kisses Mira's inner thigh. "In training, I fuck them all," she says, her beautiful mouth curving into a smug smile, and that must settle the matter, because with her next breath she leans in and puts her mouth on Mira, teasing her swollen labia open to run the flat of her tongue across her clit.

Throwing her head back, Mira groans loudly, all that is not the magic Saxa's mouth is working shifting out of focus, leaving her pleasantly stranded in this intimate space created by nothing but the tangle of their bodies.

Mira has never known such a thing, never had the pleasure of another's mouth on her, and Saxa's is not a gentle introduction. Her touch burns like fire and intoxicates beyond reason, with the grip of Saxa's fingers promising bruises on the soft flesh of Mira's inner thighs. To begin with, she is careful to keep still, but Saxa's hands coaxes her hips into moving, into working helplessly against Saxa, chasing heights of pleasure previously uncharted.

It takes but short moment for Saxa to have her crying out, hands reaching back against the grate to clench palms bars until knuckles whiten and nails dig deep into flesh.

She slumps against the gate, panting, and brushes a weak hand through Saxa's hair as the other woman lifts her head to grin at Mira, lips and chin shining with slick in the dim torchlight. Without breaking the lock of their eyes, she straightens, hands going to Mira's waist to loosen the leather band keeping her shift in place. It falls to the floor, baring Mira to Saxa's greedy gaze and tender touch.

"Blood wets cunt," Saxa murmurs into Mira's throat, lips working another mark into her skin. "But beautiful woman more so."

With that, she leads Mira to her pallet to make the most of the scant hours they have left together.

  
  


Mira once had a stolen sip of Falernian wine, from a half-filled amphora sequestered away by Thessela from her Domina and shared among a few slaves. It had a taste richer than anything Mira had previously known - as it filled her mouth, she had had the fleeting, ludicrous thought that this must been what freedom tasted like, would she ever come to know it. The recollection of her eve with Saxa inspires the same feeling - one of a moment stolen, of but a scrap of bliss wrested from this hollow existence. Insignificant, possibly, in the whole of it, but a treasured memory nevertheless.

Not even the knowledge that every detail of their encounter that prying eyes and ears could claim will have traveled throughout the house like her cries through the tunnels below can put a damper on her mood. She keeps her head down and the spring absent from her step, but whenever she has a moment alone, she presses searching fingertips to the bruises Saxa bestowed on her neck or on her inner thigh, relishing in the gentle bloom of pain.

Dominus catches her unawares while she's polishing jewelery and she lets out a startled gasp as he grabs her shoulder to turn her around to face him. He takes her chin in hand with rough fingers, a morbid parody of Saxa's hand in the same place just hours past, and forces her gaze to meet his.

"She favors cunt over cock that one, huh?" he says, turning Mira's head to inspect the purple marks decorating the slope of her neck. She wants to shrug him off, hide the bruises from his eyes to keep them to herself, but holds still, knowing all to well what will happen a the faintest show of insolence. "Was she pleased with you?"

Reluctantly, Mira nods.

"Hm. Keep her that way." He releases her, with enough force that she barrels into the table behind her. "I'll let her know that with her next victory, she'll have your pretty face between her legs again."

He disappears from sight and Mira turns back to her task, the nostalgic taste of wine on her lips suddenly soured.

  
  


During the coming days, many of her duties suddenly carry her into the ludus. She is ordered to assist Medicus by fetching herbs, cleaning shallow scraps and keeping an eye on any further injury the gladiators acquire for sign of festering. The stupidity of fighting men and women must be endless, Mira thinks to herself, when they rather damage themselves hiding weakness than admit to it and hoard the very strength thy depend upon for the glory they so crave.

She know why Batiatus has ordered her out of the villa - Saxa is currently one of his ludus' big attractions, rivaled perhaps only by Spartacus himself. Dominus, always keenly aware of what the masses crave even before it is presented to them, has purchased more recruits to train into gladiatrices, but Saxa is his ravaging she-wolf, his best, and he is sending Mira down here to see to her happiness.

"Eat," Saxa says, putting bowl of porridge in front of her. Sitting down next to Mira, she digs heartily into her own.

Mira can feel the looks cast in their direction, aware that Saxa must has stepped on tender toes by procuring the second bowl. For her. She has never known a gladiator's protection before, save that of Spartacus, and she does not know whether this is Saxa showing care or staking her claim.

One of the German men calls to Saxa from across the room and Saxa grins with an amused shake of her head before turning from him to Mira. Soft fingers brushes raven strands from her face to hook behind her ear.

"Next moon, I fight," Saxa says, trailing her fingers down Mira's arm. She smiles widely. "And I'll be winner." She leans in close, scent of warm skin and salty sweat filling Mira's senses, and kisses her throat, causing Mira to shiver in the heat. She lowers her voice to whisper, "All nights pass in dreams of you."

Mira returns her smile, warmed by such tenderly spoken words, and picks up her spoon, thinking she might as well eat while nourishing meal is put before her, regardless of its cause.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the wait got so long, but here it finally is, at least. :)

Mira expects her next encounter with Saxa to be at the very least another moon away - not until after the gladiatrix takes the sands and leaves them victorious again. Thus, she reacts with surprise when she is called away from her evening tasks and led to a secluded room at the far end of the villa.

Much like last time, Saxa waits on the bed there, clean and oiled, accompanied by Lucretia and that Roman woman who seems to have developed an affinity for Batiatus' most prized gladiatrix. Saxa smells cloyingly of perfume, Mira finds as she draws near, but the feel of her sword-rough fingers when they steal their way into Mira's is calming and familiar.

Satisfied, Lucretia sweeps out of the room, with a glance in the direction of her slaves that most clearly tells of what horrors she will bestow upon them should they fail to properly entertain her guest, and Mira subsequently drops her shift quickly and crawls to the middle of the bed.

She expects the proceedings to follow much as they did last time, but instead the lady orders Mira on her knees between Saxa's legs. She is already pulling the fabric of her toga aside and her eyes, as they follow Saxa leaning back against the pillows and Mira fitting herself between her legs, are heavy with hunger.

Mira cannot help but first lean up and press wet kisses to Saxa's breasts and the taut muscles of her stomach, letting her tongue tease nonsense into her skin as her head dips lower. Saxa's fingers are running lightly through her hair only to grip sharply as Mira spreads her cunt open with her tongue.

She is glad that this is a pleasure they have already shared between them - it would have been a loss, if the first time she learned the taste and scent of Saxa, felt the tremble and jerks of her body pulled taut in passion, was as a spectacle for one of Domina's esteemed guests.

It is easy to pretend their union unsullied by Roman presence with her face hidden away in the juncture of Saxa's spread legs, and when Saxa finishes with a hoarse growl, the other woman is near completely displaced from Mira's mind.

Resting her chin against Saxa's thigh, she glances up at her with warm smile, bestows a soft kiss against the fingers Saxa presses to her lips.

Words from unwelcome presence breaks the fragile spell of peace. "Fuck her," the lady orders Saxa, nodding to Mira, and careless movements of love-making turn into a dutifully choreographed dance of seduction in the blink of an eye.

Mira turns onto her hands and knees as Saxa fastens the leather straps around her hips, cursing softly in German tongue as they tangle.

Saxa's hand fall to Mira's neck as she presses inside and Mira is grateful for that point of contact, for this small thing that is theirs and for her and no one else to enjoy. Pleasuring Saxa has left her cunt wet with need and every forceful thrust of Saxa inside of her finds her struggling to hold on to her last sliver of control as pleasure swells like the tide within while her mind struggles turn from the abasement of the situation. She lets her focus remain on the grip of fingers around her neck and braces against each push of Saxa's hips with gritted teeth, determined not to give into the pleasure this is giving her.

Saxa's breathing is loud and heavy in the room and the air seem stifling - Mira is too hot in her flesh, as if it is threatening to melt off her bones from the cresting heat she attempts to keep locked up inside. A sharp gasp breaks off into a deep moan as Saxa's other hand seeks out her cunt, but Mira bats it away, finding herself more willing to not finish at all despite the fire burning within than do to it in service of this woman again.

Movement catches her eye as the Roman lady rises, coming to stand next to the bed. Saxa's thrusts falter and when Mira chances a look across her shoulder, she sees her pale hand cupping the rounded curve of Saxa's breast.

"Harder," she urges Saxa, squeezing the flesh in her hand. "I wish to see you fuck her until all sense flee, gladiatrix."

Ragged noise is torn from Mira's throat as Saxa falls to command, driving harder inside of her, hands gripping Mira's hips with intention to hold and mark. It all turns muddled in her head, what's genuine and what's pretense as she lets her moans grow louder, her movements increase in desperation as she rocks back against Saxa - to chase the mounting pleasure or see this finished quickly, she does not know.

Saxa's deep, skilful thrusts wrests a shattering climax from her even absent touch, and spent and humiliated she lets the force of it propel her into collapsing down on the bed, face hidden from view as she slowly regains her composure.

She hears the sound of uncoming steps and then Lucretia, inquiring in a low voice whether the woman is pleased with the spectacle put before her or if she wishes for anything else. She must be sated, because she leaves with Lucretia, after Domina yet again orders Mira to remain to see Saxa rewarded for her services.

When they have gone, Saxa falls to Mira's side, hand going to run across her shoulderblades in a gentle caress, wordlessly asking how she is faring. Whether it is her tentative grasp of Roman tongue or simply part of her nature, Mira has learned that Saxa communicates most eloquently in touch. Her hands are never far from Mira whenever they are together, not to lay claim, but to speak what words all too often cannot.

Mira turns onto her back, reaching for Saxa to pull her into a kiss. Saxa responds eagerly, plunging into the kiss, her body moving to cover Mira's, leaving warm and sweat-drenched skin to slide together. With want still running through her veins, Mira spreads her legs, hooks them closely around Saxa's hips.

Without letting go of Saxa's mouth with her own, she reaches down between them, grasping the length of the phallus, slick with oil and her own arousal, and tugs at it, causing Saxa's body to tremble with a deep groan. She pulls away from the kiss, her teeth lingering on Mira's swollen bottom lip, and Mira watches aptly as her eyes flutter shut in pleasure as Mira tugs at the toy between her legs anew, the leather straps moving against her most intimately.

Her pulse beats heavy like thunder beneath Mira's hand as she wraps it around Saxa's neck, using the other to guide Saxa inside of her, her mouth falling open in a soundless gasp as Saxa works her hips, sliding in fully to fill her up.

Mira cries out as Saxa shoves forward, but the noise is devoured by Saxa's lips, her scalding mouth descending on Mira's again, peppering it with ardent kisses as she moves inside of her in short, sharp thrusts.

She opens her eyes and Saxa is there, grey eyes fixed on Mira's face and her lips glistening in the dim slight, her cheeks rosy from exertion. There is something in her eyes, a thing beyond words, that has Mira turning her face away, overwhelmed. Saxa's mouth goes to her jaw, presses fervent, lingering kisses against her cheek and throat as the movement of her hips pushes dark, heavy sounds out of Mira.

She closes her arms around Saxa, nails digging into the skin of her back, and groans roughly. Her climax is building inside of her anew and all the stronger for it, trapped beneath her flaming skin. Saxa is panting against the side of Mira's throat and Mira tightens her legs around her, hands moving down to her ass to press her more closely between her thighs. Saxa lets out a string of curses in her native tongue and Mira has to seek out her lips again, has to have her close and her mouth on her always.

" _Ich liebe dich_ ," Saxa pants raggedly into the kiss. Mira does not know what meaning the words hold; she simply nods in response and moves harder against Saxa.

Saxa falls back easily as Mira pushes against her shoulder and she smirks at the wondering expression on Saxa's face as she climbs on top of her, straddling her hips. Moving to replace Saxa inside of her, she sinks back down and rocks her hips forward, throwing her head back at the pressure, the feel of Saxa so deeply inside her.

Saxa does catch on quickly - her hands go up to grab hold of Mira's hips and with her feet planted on the bedding she pushes up into her angled just right, sending lightning coursing through Mira's body with each stroke.

Desperate to finish, Mira places her hand between her legs and lets Saxa do the brunt of the work as she rubs her fingers roughly against herself. This time, she is powerless to look away from Saxa, who is staring up at her like she is Juno herself sitting astride her, her teeth biting into her lower lip as she fucks up into Mira hard.

Her building pleasure finally erupts as Saxa's hands bring her down hard against her and Mira cries out, blackness overtaking her vision for a few long moments.

Saxa catches her as her strength gives out and rolls her to her side, gently pulling out of her as she goes. She wraps her arms around her and kisses her face and Mira kisses her back, her own arms going around Saxa's shoulders. They stay like that, folded together, for a long time, until duty and reality returns in the shape of Domina to separate them anew.

  
  


Mira is cleaning a wound for the younger of the German brothers with him wincing in a manner that causes her to quietly wonder how the reckless idiot ever managed to acquire the mark to begin with, much less survive this long.

"So you are the girl who has made a fool of Saxa," he says when she puts cloth and salve away in favour of bandage to wrap the wound.

"I suppose," she says in careful manner cultivated by all slaves wishing to avoid undue punishment for giving an answer the inquirer might not truly wish to hear.

"Saxa has never heeded much besides her own wishes and counsel," Duro continues, "but this is the first time she has turned from kin for the sake of cunt."

He curses loudly as Mira pulls the bandage too hard around his sore arm. Wordlessly, she raises an eyebrow in response to his wounded look.

"You are bonded by blood and brand," Mira says with ice in her tone, the boy's careless words digging deeper than she cares to admit. "You train, fight, eat and take your rest together. I assure you that my occasional presence will not sever such a firm tether."

"It already has," Duro insists. "If given choice, she would remain here with you rather than take flight with the rest of us."

Mira's hands still, as if his words had the ability to turn them to stone. All gladiators speak of pursuing freedom. They do have the chance, after all - enough winnings in the arena and they will have coin to buy themselves free of their masters, if they live that long. Most of them have known lives before slavery and have something to fight for, something to return to. It is the sort of hope few house slaves have opportunity to cling to. But what Duro speaks of does not sound like freedom gained in exchange for coins. Rather, it seems to hint at something much more dangerous.

"Perhaps," she says, tugging hard at the bandage again, "it is not misplaced affection that stays hand, but _sense_ \- something you seem to lack, speaking so freely of such things." She lets her hands fall. "I am done here. See that arm rested to keep wound from splitting open."

She stands, turning away from him, heart beating like that of a caged bird inside her chest as she thinks about what his careless words alluded too - freedom, _rebellion_. Saxa, bloodied and dead, and Mira soon to follow in painful manner upon cross.

  
  


She is still reeling from Duro's foolish revelation when she is called to the ludus. The sun has barely set, but she follows the guard willingly, eager to have a word with Saxa.

But it is not to Saxa's cell she is led, but Spartacus'.

"Get in there, girl. I doubt the Champion of Capua enjoys the wait," the guard says as she hesitates before the open door.

She steps slowly inside only to be swept up in Spartacus's embrace, pressed closely against his chest. Frowning, she struggles vainly in his grip, cold terror rising inside of her at the knowledge that he can do with her as he wants and there is nothing she can do to stop him. She is not beholden to Saxa - Dominus has nothing to gain from their liaison but Saxa's momentary compliance. She should have expected this, and she did, but not so soon. Not with Spartacus.

"Hold still," Spartacus whispers in her ear. "Trust me."

She stills in his arms and he places her up against the wall in the furthest corner, as far from the guard outside as they can get.

He puts his face against her ear, pretending to kiss her neck, and whispers, "I have a favour to ask."

Mira does not reply. She lets out a heavy sigh, playing along.

"There are plans in the making," Spartacus mumbles, low enough for her to need to strain her ears in order to pick up his words. "We plan vengeance and to take our freedom."

"It is madness to even speak of such a thing," Mira protests, a tad too loudly. Spartacus glances up the closed door and she hides her outburst beneath a high, feigned gasp.

"I need you to have the gate opened, to give us entry to the villa," Spartacus says as if she has not spoken. "Mira, I beg you."

" _Your_ deaths will be quick," she whispers furiously. She squirms against him, pretending that he is bringing her pleasure when it is nothing but rage heating her blood. "You will die upon Roman swords. For the rest of us, it will be the cross. It will long and slow and painful. I will be hanged in the market place for all to see, my end used an example to put fear into other like me. Do not beg this of me, Spartacus, when you will not share my fate."

"Imagine if we _live_ ," Spartacus murmurs. "Imagine us far from here, you and your woman free to live and love absent the Roman's and the danger of their whims."

"You do not care if we live," Mira mutters. "You only hunger for your vengeance."

"I but wish to see my heart restored," Spartacus says.

"We will all die."

"Saxa is out for blood," Spartacus says, pulling away to look her in the eye. "She has already joined the cause, Mira. She and the German brothers plotted this with me. If you do not care for freedom or vengeance, at least do not let _her_ die for nothing, without a proper chance at the freedom she longs for."

Mira returns his gaze, holds it. "If I do this," she says after a long stretch of silence, heart clenching in her chest at the mere thought of the promise she is about to make, "I would have something in return."

Spartacus waits for her to continue.

"The gladiators look to you as a leader," Mira says. "The house slaves would too, if given the opportunity. If I do this, if I help you gain your vengeance, you will lead us and, to the best of your ability, see those of us that live far from the grasp of the Romans. You owe us that."

Solemnly, Spartacus nods his acquiescence.

"Then I will see gate opened," Mira says.

  
  


The house is fallen to ruin, the walls she passes in her mad dash through it streaked with crimson blood, with the corpses of Roman nobility lying slaughtered in the corners. She is gripping a knife in her blood-slick hands, retrieved from a dead guard in exchange for the meager shard of pottery she had been clutching before.

 _I began this_ , she thinks, helpless to do anything but gaze around at the devastation. Her sandalled feet stick to the floor with each step. _This is my work_.

She hears steps approach and flattens herself against the wall in response, holding the blade in both hands, ready to strike.

A lone guard comes from around the corner, panting and haunted, his gaze fastened on something behind him. He doesn't see her as she steps forward and the exposed skin of his neck is sickeningly soft, sliding open like silken cloth beneath the sharp edge of her knife. There is little skill in the way she plunges it into him and he drops backward with a gurgling noise, blood pumping from the wound to further stain her white dress.

She rips the blade free and steps back, wordlessly staring down at the man as he leaves this world choking on his own blood, hands scrabbling uselessly against the floor.

He has barely fallen still before she hears the sound of oncoming steps again, accompanied by loud voices. Her hands begins to tremble, hrt grip around the knife's hilt slipping. She doesn't know if she can endeavor to do it again, cut another man's throat open and stand by as he dies. The smell of blood is so very thick in the air, spilling down her throat.

She almost falls to her knees in relief as it is Agron rounding the corner, his face streaked with blood and set into a mask of grim, brutal determination, with Saxa, coated in red up to her elbows and with a slash of it across her cheekbone, following him.

At the sight of Mira, she rushes up to her, gripping her shoulder hard with the hand free of sword. "You live," she says, smiling through the gore.

Mira nods.

Saxa bends down to catch her gaze. "Weight of deaths will lessen in time," she says, pressing her mouth to Mira's cheek in a hasty kiss. "We must go, _bärli_."

"Yes," Agron says, his voice a low growl. Duro is not accompanying them and it takes no more than that for Mira to know what must have transpired. "Let us take leave of this fucking place."

Mira nods and takes Saxa's hand, presses it firmly with her own, relishing in the quickened pace of her own heartbeat, in the feeling of yet being alive among all this death.

"The gates stand open," she says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> rape/non-con elements includes lucretia ordering saxa and mira to have sex for roman entertainment. both women want the other, but not during those kind of circumstances.


End file.
